A WOODLAND SPRITE of the rakish kind
Suddenly made up his mind
That he had been so good through Lent
He'd just start out on pleasure bent.
He flittered around from flower to flower,
And told them love tales by the hour.
But the posies tired and sought repose—
All but one little budded rose.
And she, poor, silly little dear,
Turned to the Sprite a willing ear.
He kissed her velvet pin-white lips,
And fingered her dress with his finger tips,
He flattered her gown, admired her taste,
From her moss-green cap to her sylphlike waist.
He told of a duel he had fought
With a bandit bee he had caught
While robbing a rose of its honeydew,
And with his sword he ran it through.
Then what did the little rosebud do?
Why, she laid her head on the Sprite's broad breast,
And then, ah well, you know the rest;
It was the same old story in a different light,
For the bud gave birth to the rose that night.
You'll all condemn this naughty elf
Who thought so much of his selfish self,
But he did the manly, spritely thing,
And presented the bud with a wedding ring.
And now, instead of one, they say
The little bud was a whole bouquet.